Charles Lever - The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

“Your Princess will not honor us, it seems, with her company,” said the Archduke, half in pique, as the messenger returned with Kate’s excuses; “and yet I looked for her coming to get rid of all the farrago of politics that you wise folk will insist upon talking.”

The Countess and the Minister exchanged most significant glances at this speech, while D’Esmonde politely assented to the remark, by adding something about the relaxation necessary to overwrought minds, and the need that princes should enjoy some repose as well as those of lower degree. “I can, however, assure your Imperial Highness,” said he, “that this is no caprice of the young Princess. She is really far from well, and was even unable to receive her own relative this afternoon, the Count von Dalton.”

“What, is old Auersberg a relative of hers?”

“An uncle, or a grand-uncle, – I forget which, sir.”

“Then that wild youth in the Franz Carl must be a connection too?”

“The cadet is her brother, sir.”

“Indeed! What an extravagant fellow it is! They say that, counting on being Auersberg’s heir, he spends money in every possible fashion; and as the tradespeople take the succession on trust, his debts are already considerable. It was only yesterday his colonel spoke to me of sending him to the Banat, or some such place. His family must be rich, I suppose?”

“I believe quite the reverse, sir. Poor to indigence. Their entire hope is on the Count von Auersberg.”

“He held a frontier command for many years, and must have saved money. But will he like to see it in hands like these?”

“I believe – at least so the story goes,” said D’Esmonde, dropping his voice to a whisper, “that the boy’s arguments have scarcely assisted his object in that respect. They say that he told the Count that in times like these no man’s fortune was worth a year’s purchase; that when monarchs were tottering and thrones rocking, it were better to spend one’s means freely than to tempt pillage by hoarding it.”

“Are these his notions?” cried the Archduke, in amazement

“Yes; the wildest doctrines of Socialism are his creed, – opinions, I grieve to say, more widely spread than any one supposes.”

“How is this, then? I see the private regimental reports of every corps, I read the conduct-rolls of almost every company, and yet no hint of this disaffection has reached me.

“A priest could reveal more than an adjutant, sir,” said the Abbé, smiling. “These youths who fancy themselves neglected, – who think their claims disregarded, – who, in a word, imagine that some small pretension, on the score of family, should be the spring of their promotion, are easily seduced into extravagant ideas about freedom and so forth.”

“Austria is scarce the land for such fruit to ripen in,” said the Archduke, laughing. “Let him try France, or the United States.”

“Very true, your Highness,” chimed in the Abbé; “but such boys ought to be watched, – their conduct inquired strictly into.”

“Or better still, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said the Archduke, sternly, “dismissed the service. I see no profit in retaining amongst us the seeds of this French malady.”

“I believe your Highness takes the true view of the difficulty,” said D’Esmonde, as though reflecting over it. “And yet you will be asked to make an officer of him in a day or two.”

“An officer of this boy, and why, or by whom?”

“The Princess, his sister, will make the request; probably through Von Auersberg.”

“But when I tell the Feld – ”

“Ah, your Imperial Highness could not betray a confidence!” said D’Esmonde. “I have ventured to disclose to you what has come to my knowledge by means only accessible to myself; I therefore rely on your Highness not to divulge, however you may use it.”

“He shall not continue to wear our cloth; that you may certainly rely on, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said the Archduke, sternly.

“In any case, wait for his sister’s departure, sir,” said D’Esmonde, anxiously; “a few days or hours. As soon as this silly old lady has made up that budget of gossip and scandal she fancies to be political news, we ‘ll see her leave this, and then he can be dealt with as you think proper.”

The Archduke made no reply, – not seeming either to assent to or reject the counsel. “It would break the old Marshal’s heart,” said he, at last; “that gallant old soldier would never survive it.”

“A treason might, indeed, kill him,” said D’Esmonde. “But your Highness will anticipate exposure by dismissal – dismissal, peremptory and unexplained.”

Again the Archduke was silent, but his lowering brow and dark expression told that the subject was giving him deep and serious thought. “I paid no attention to your conversation this evening, Abbé,” said be, at last; “but it struck me, from a chance word here and there, that you suspect these same ‘Liberal’ notions are gaining ground.”

“Heresies against the Faith, sir, have begotten their natural offspring, heresies against the State; and Governments do not yet awaken to the fact that they who scorn the altar will not respect the throne. The whole force of what are called Liberal institutions has been to weaken the influence of the clergy; and yet it is precisely on that same influence you will have to fall back. It is beneath the solemn shadow of the Church you’ll seek your refuge yet!”

“No, no, father,” said the Archduke, with a laugh; “we have another remedy.”

“The mitre is stronger than the mitraille , after all,” said D’Esmonde, boldly. “Believe me, sir, that the solemn knell that tolls an excommunication will strike more terror through Christendom than all your artillery.”

Either the remark or the tone in which it was uttered was unpleasing to the Prince; indeed, all the Abbe’s courtesy at times gave way to an almost impetuous boldness, which royalty never brooks, for he turned away haughtily, and joined the others at a distant part of the room.

There was something of scorn in the proud look which D’Esmonde gave after him, and then slipped from the chamber with noiseless step and disappeared. Inquiring the way to the Princess’s apartment, the Abbé slowly ascended the stairs, pondering deeply as he went. Nina was passing the corridor at the moment, and, supposing that he had mistaken the direction, politely asked if she could offer him any guidance. Scarcely noticing the questioner, he replied, —

“I was looking for the Princesse de Midchekoff’s apartments.”

“It is here, sir; but she is indisposed.”

“If you would say that the Abbé D’Esmonde – ”

He had got thus far when, lifting his eyes, his glance fell upon her features; and then, as if spell-bound, he stood silently gazing at her. Nina’s cheek grew crimson under the stare; but her eyes met his with unshaken firmness.

“If I were to disbelieve all probabilities,” said he, slowly, “I should say that I see an old friend before me. Are you not the daughter of Huertos, the Toridor of Seville?”

“Fra Eustace!” said Nina, stepping back and staring steadily at him.

“No longer so, Lola; I am the Abbé D’Esmonde now,” said he, while a faint flush tinged his pale features.

“And I am Nina, the ‘Cameriera,’” replied she, scornfully. “See how unequally fortune has dealt with us!”

D’Esmonde made a sign towards the door, which she at once understood and answered, —

“Yes, in the service of the Princess.”

“This is indeed a strange meeting, Lola.”

“Call me Nina,” said the girl, flushing, “or I shall remember old times, and my Spanish blood will little bear such memories.”